21st Century Bogatyr: July 2020

Tuesday, July 28, 2020

Even Without Clocks

"...and I am anxiously waiting for the secret of eternal life to be discovered…" Lawrence Ferlinghetti from his poem I Am Waiting

[This is Part Five of a work in progress. Links to the rest are at the bottom of this page.]

by Zvi Baranoff

The Marching Band got drunk and then marched about, playing awfully as they stumbled about, half in my stomach and half in my skull. Sometimes a lie down would help, but sleep was fitful. I would awaken in a sweat and a panic. Sometimes the opium would bring relief, but only so much. The sonic attack had me shaken to the core.

I would feel OK for a while and we would take a greenhouse stroll and then I would be sitting on a bench with the universe all donder and blixem and my head spinning. I would drink some herb tea and we would head back to Abuelo's place and I would take a nap and feel a little better. And this is pretty much how things went for several days.

As I began to feel a little better, I began to wander about the Zone a bit on my own. No one limited me or discouraged me and I could go where I pleased. The distance that I covered was only limited by my personal stamina.

I never saw anything resembling a current map of the Zone. My cell phone continued to have no signal so there were no GPS coordinates or satellite maps that I could rely on. I never saw anything that resembled a border and truly was unable to figure out how to leave on my own, not that I was really up to the task yet.

I saw nothing that resembled a transportation system, either public or private. No busses, trams, taxis, cars or even bicycles. No donkey or horse carts either.

I still found nothing that could be even loosely defined as commercial or commerce. Most of the clothing worn seemed to be homespun or high quality craft rather than manufactured.

I found that the temperature varied widely in the greenhouse walkways. They are all fairly comfortable but some maintained a temperature of not that much above freezing while others were downright tropical. This allowed for a wide variety of plant growth. It also contributed to wide variations in social exchanges. Climate determines activities. While nudity was not widespread, in the warmer sections, various stages of undress were not particularly unusual and lack of clothing did not seem to surprise or obviously offend anyone. In the warmest sections there were areas where semi-discreet rendezvous and yogic exuberance took place mostly just beyond public view amongst the bushes or behind clumps of grasses.

There is a very creative and extensive network of chicken runs that crisscrossed the greenhouses as well as the private gardens. It mostly keeps the birds out of the planting beds, but not completely. An occasional hen or rooster might be found anywhere and some end up in a stew or a soup. Scattered about were also roosting boxes, each containing nests for four or six birds. The eggs are gathered without plan or organization and everyone that likes to eat eggs seem to get enough.

In between it all, during my phases of greater lucidity, Abuelo carried on like the hybrid historian, reporter, activist and professor that was his nature, and he would try to explain to me the Zone and the relationship - or lack thereof - with Chicago, the USA and the rest of the world.

Between walks and naps and meals and sit downs in the personal greenhouse garden adjacent to the house - where he lectured about gardening - out came the diagrams and the maps and old books and magazines and flyers and newspaper articles that helped make sense of the trends and situations and circumstances that brought about the unlikely string of events that created a place that exists on no maps and projects an appearance of solidity while not officially being.

Of course, understanding the present requires understanding the past and understanding the past requires knowledge of motivation of all sorts of individuals and groups.

One thing leads to another. And we are considering the Spanish Civil War and the Paris Commune and the letters exchanged between Karl Marx and Abraham Lincoln and the struggle between Bolsheviks and the Mensheviks and the struggle for the eighth hour work day. There are multiple books on all these subjects on Abuelo's shelves.

This Charles Abuelo fellow came up from Georgia to Chicago for college, and stayed. He held various jobs, from washing dishes to writing and editing. He was a reporter for a couple of different alternative weeklies. This had been his neighborhood long before it became the Zone.

He pulled down a screen from the ceiling that contained a map of Chicago. "This is where I lived in the 1990s." he said using a broom handle to point at the map. "By the end of the century, there was a bike collective here, an organic bakery and coffee house here and a political puppet group renting a warehouse somewhere in here."

"Well," he continued, "there were moderate size urban gardens here and here and there were squatters occupying buildings in this section here."

"Whenever there were political demonstrations, they usually began in the park over here, and proceeded in this direction. Generally, the police would try to block off the marches before they got into this area. At some point there would be a standoff. The cops formed a phalanx, a bottle would bounce off some cop's helmet or a window would crack somewhere. And clubs would swing and teargas canisters would fly and crowds would either flee or fight and sometimes they built barricades".

That seemed to be the general pattern, with an ebb and flow to the political zeal, that went on for decades. He placed a reel to reel tape player on his desk and we listened to old speeches. He had a movie projector and showed me films of gatherings, marches, festivals and riots spanning a quarter century.

That part of the city began taking on a clearer sense of identity that perceived itself as being different than the city as a whole and soon there were those calling for secession. The police were, more and more, perceived as an occupation army and there were calls for disbanding the police. A spark would trigger a reaction and the cycle of violence would flare again with the familiar patterns of batons and teargas and barricades.

Keeping the police out had become a strategy and rather than marching towards the police, demonstrators were declaring parks and streets "liberated" and organized to defend territory. The terrain had changed. Now, the police focused on clearing out occupied spaces. They attacked the parks. They raided the squats. They trampled the gardens. And a bottle would fly or a window would break and the batons were utilized as was teargas.

Police efforts to clear the area that the cops were already calling the Zone were spotty and largely ineffective. The frequency and pace of the demonstrations multiplied. Tensions were growing as well. The crowds got larger and more adamant. The police became more brutal.

At some point, the government strategy shifted. Those that lived in the Zone expected some sort of negotiations and compromise resulting in some increased autonomy for the Zone.

What came down from the Federales caught everyone off guard. Forever, it had been a bizarre ballet with discordant music, but it seemed that without warning the orchestra packed up and left and the dancers did not know what to do.

It was the Ides of March when the announcement was made that the Zone had been declared illegal. All businesses operating within the Zone were ordered to cease activities immediately. A government announcement declared that those "without criminal intent" should vacate the Zone within 24 hours.

The next day, electricity to the Zone was cut off and mail service was discontinued. Of course, there were some solar panels, but certainly not enough to supply the whole Zone with consistent power.

Even water was cut off for a few hours, but that required shutting down a line that served around a third of Chicago, so the water was soon back on.

Neighborhood meetings were called and went on for marathon sessions. A collective response was sought. Consensus was called for and never quite reached as the meetings stretched into the early morning hours.

The Police manned Security Checkpoints were established at all on the main streets. To begin with, cars were allowed out unhindered, with a minimum screening and an ID check for outstanding warrants. The next day, barriers were in place on all the secondary streets and by the third day the alleys were blocked and boulders had been placed on the bike paths.

So, while persistent individuals on foot could find ways through the blockade, anything like normal travel and exchange was squashed. The Zone was under quarantine, embargo, siege.

Those under siege in the Zone tried using the internet to let the world know what was going on. Within days, most of the Zone lost phone signals. The signal could only be picked up in the areas close to the checkpoints. People could be seen wandering with their phones held up in the air, trying to catch a signal. The police responded with drones, knocking phones from hands with smashed phones and broken fingers resulting. After a few days, the electronic curtain solidified and even those weak signals around the parameters disappeared. The Zone was cut off.

So, virtually no news could get out of the Zone and other than rumors and wisps, the only information that came in were directly from the police at the security checkpoints. Much of that information seemed tailored to cause panic. Perhaps nothing was more effective than the news that came to the Zone shortly after the phone signals went dead.

The Federal government passed the Universal Cell Phone & Internet Bill of Rights and perhaps no piece of legislation has ever been more mislabeled than this. On the one hand, it assured every American access to the internet, but it also bound every American to the web. While recognizing that there are some void areas and one can be out of range for short periods, such as a camping trip, however if one is disconnected from the web for more than four weeks, the governmental presumption is that the person is dead. Dead people don't have bank accounts, health insurance or Social Security. The government essentially declared anyone that remained in the Zone dead to the world.

The population of the Zone rapidly dwindled. Those with commitments and connections such as jobs and families were more inclined to leave. Those with deeper commitments in the neighborhood or those with strong reasons to be disconnected from the outside, such as outstanding warrants, stayed put. Things got really difficult, really quickly.

The Salvagers became key to survival in the Zone. They moved in and out of abandoned properties, determining what was useful for repurposing. They oversaw deconstruction projects. They coordinated smuggling operations, bringing essentials from the outside into the Zone.

Anyone could become a Salvager but not everyone was able to be a Salvager. It took a level of gumption and willfulness that only the truly committed can maintain. Initially, the Salvagers were a working committee, primarily of squatters, but the crew transformed into something closer to a guild or a fraternity.

One evening, around sunset, Maria let herself into the cottage as Abuelo and I were just finishing dinner. She pulled a satchel from the inner pocket of her leather jacket and opened it to reveal a dozen mushrooms. We each ate two and then two more. Abuelo and I washed ours down with some very smooth Tennessee whiskey.

Maria went to sit in the greenhouse and that was the last I saw of her that evening. Abuelo puttered about, straightening books.

I sat in a corner and watched light turn into sound and sounds turn into colors and waves of colors roll through the wall and I held on tight to the arms of the chair. At some point a mountain lion strolled in and sat beside me and began to explain to me deep esoteric secrets and we debated fine philosophical points. It did cross my mind that the mountain lion was considerably out of its normal habitat.

I am not sure how long we were conversing like that, but it felt like a long time and we were deeply engrossed in dialogue when I heard a crash. I looked up and I saw Abuelo pushing piles of books off the edge of his crowded desk. I looked back and found that the mountain lion was gone.

Abuelo had cleared enough space on his desk to unroll a map. He stuck a book on each corner to keep it from rolling up. I came over to see what he was up to. It was an old street map of the neighborhood before it had been sealed off.

As I looked at the map, the streets became translucent, the buildings started to rise, grass and trees grew in the parks. We stepped into the map and began to walk about.

We were both decades younger, young men in our prime. I don't know how many days, weeks, months passed. I know seasons came and went.

We played softball in the park. We drank beer at a bar while watching a Cubs game on the TV. Later, we played pool in the backroom. We ate pizza. We bought weed from the Corner Boys. We went to coffee houses and heard a lot of terrible poetry. We went to concerts and heard a lot of blaring and disjointed music. I met some sweet and lovely women and had a few romantic, but not real serious, encounters. We saw amateur theater, fights in alleyways, arguments over parking spaces. We saw falling leaves and snow plows moving about. I found out what it was like to live in that neighborhood and why Abuelo loved it there and why he chose to stay.

And then, I slipped and fell and fell some more and I must have fallen out of the map. I looked about and I was alone, on the wooden floor of Abuelo's cottage. I closed my eyes for a while. The next thing I remember is the sensation of the earth shaking. I opened one eye and found Abuelo standing next to me, shaking my shoulder. He seemed to be standing a few inches off the floor and glowing. I closed that one eye again but the shaking continued until I gave in and sat up.

"Let's go for a walk," he suggested. "It is almost morning and I know a great place to watch the sunrise." Sure, why not? I looked around in case of mountain lions or other such, shrugged my shoulders, found my hat and coat. Abuelo threw some fruit and bread and cheese and such into a shoulder bag and picked up his walking cane. We headed out into the pre-morning darkness.

The weather had turned somewhat moderate and the walk was not real cold and we did not have all that far to go. We entered a stairwell of one of the taller buildings that I had seen in the Zone. We climbed to the roof where there was a lovely sheltered space with a lawn and trees and a wonderful view of the eastern horizon. Some other locals also found their way to this promontory. The sun rose in spectacular form. We ate breakfast on that rooftop.

"I have something else to show you," Abuelo told me and he led me further through the trails of the Zone. We tend to think of city spaces as crowded places, however, if roads and offices and commercial buildings and parking lots and trains and such are eliminated and houses are scaled down, it is surprising perhaps how spacious and open a city can be. That is exactly the situation in the Zone. Probably three-quarters or more of the original buildings had been carefully deconstructed, with everything potentially useful transformed for new uses such as the cottage where I was recuperating.

We walked another short distance and came to what must have been a plaza at one time. There was a building with a clock tower but the face of the clock had been smashed. There was a pedestal in the center of the former plaza. The pedestal stood unadorned with no statuary and no plaque.

"So," he began. "The more political folks amongst us met all day and all night. They argued and fought over ideology and policy. They made all the decisions by consensus. In theory, that meant that everyone came to a common agreement. In practice, there were really very few things anyone agreed about. No one liked to be told what to do and no one wanted an authority over them, but as far as making practical decisions, well…" He trailed off and sat quietly for a while.

Then he continued his tale. "They abolished government, capitalism and money. All that was pretty simple since the government had abandoned the Zone, there was no business and since paper money had already been banned and we were cut off from electronic financial transactions, those 'decisions' had really already been made for us."

"They went on to do away with sexism, racism, ageism and every other 'ism' they could think of. And then, they took on the issue of time. There was a May Day celebration here in the plaza. There was music and speeches and then the great debate over time itself."

"Socialists and labor activists decried the old bosses and their time clocks. Both the young and the old argued against being judged or categorized by their chronological age. Former prisoners did not want to 'do' time ever again. Anarchists claimed that time itself was oppressive. New Agers and pop psychologists declared time an illusion and called for making 'Be Here Now' a central theme to our being here. Some suggested that if we stopped measuring time we could halt the aging process. Those that read a lot of science fiction professed that by disconnecting from linear time, time traveling would be possible. Somehow, all these diverse elements came to the same conclusion."

"So, on that May Day, while we celebrated and partied below, a yahoo with a sledgehammer climbed the tower and smashed the face and hands. The next day, any calendars, schedulers and clocks that could be found were piled up and set aflame. Over the next couple of days, a few individuals that were wearing wristwatches lost them to zealots. The Zone was declared free of time for perpetuity."

"Of course, that was our last May Day in the Zone. Without a calendar there are no holidays or birthdays or anniversaries and no yahrzeit candles lit for you when you are gone."

Abuelo used his cane to balance as he stood up. "Somehow, however, even without clocks and calendars, we still age," he said with resignation and perhaps a touch of sadness. We started back home.

As we walked, I asked him about the empty pedestal in the former plaza. "Oh," he said. "The nihilists wanted to build a monument to nothing, and they did."

Links to the earlier posted parts of this story, Chapters 1 - 26.

Part 1: Grace and Mercy If Luck Holds

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/05/grace-and-mercy-if-luck-holds.html?m=1

Part 2: Everything Was Fine Until It All Went Sideways

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/everything-was-fine-until-it-all-went.html

Part 3: I Blink In & Out and Awakened In the Zone

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/i-blink-in-out-and-awakened-in-zone.html

Part 4: Out Of Time

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/out-of-time.html

Part 5: Even Without Clocks

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/07/even-without-clocks.html

Part 6: Cerveza & Barbecue Before I Go

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/cerveza-barbecue-before-i-go.html?m=1

Part 7: Heading Towards the Exit

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/heading-towards-exit.html?m=1

Part 8: A Sign, Divine Guidance & Moxie

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/a-sign-divine-guidance-moxie.html?m=1

Part 9: Somehow We Kept Breathing

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/somehow-we-kept-breathing.html?m=1

Part 10: I Squinted and Stared Through it All

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/i-squinted-and-stared-through-it-all.html?m=1

Part 11: Riding a Wave

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/riding-wave.html?m=1

Part 12: Some Relief Amongst the Chaos at Woodpecker Flats

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/08/some-relief-amongst-chaos-at-woodpecker.html?m=1

Part 13: A "Classy" Operation in the District of Columbia

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/09/a-classy-operation-in-district-of.html?m=1

Part 14: In the Shadow of the Dome

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/09/in-shadow-of-dome.html?m=1

Part 15: Hidden Places and Dark Corners

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/11/hidden-places-and-dark-corners.html?m=1

Part 16: On the Jersey Shore

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2020/12/on-jersey-shore.html?m=1

Part 17: Dreaming at the No Tell Motel

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/01/dreaming-at-no-tell-motel.html?m=1

Part 18: The Coffee Didn't Help

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/02/the-coffee-didnt-help.html?m=1

Part 19: Like Two Drops of Rain

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/02/like-two-drops-of-rain.html?m=1

Part 20 : Chased by the Devil

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/03/chased-by-devil.html?m=1

Part 21: An Arcade and a Penny for Your Thoughts

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/11/an-arcade-and-penny-for-your-thoughts.html?m=1

Part 22: We Have to Talk, She Said

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/11/we-have-to-talk-she-said.html

Part 23: She Climbed Out of the Water

http://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2021/12/she-climbed-out-of-water.html

Part 24: Passions, Fires and Unfinished Business

http://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/04/unfinished-business.html

Part 25: The Book Trade Hasn't Killed Me Yet

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/05/the-book-trade-hasnt-killed-me-yet.html?m=1

Part 26: A Detour Through the Fire

https://21stcenturybogatyr.blogspot.com/2022/12/a-detour-through-fire.html?m=1

Wednesday, July 15, 2020

Out Of Time

by Zvi Baranoff

"And te tide and te time þat tu iboren were, schal beon iblescet." St. Marher, 1225

"Time and tide wait for no man." Geoffrey Chaucer

"Time is on my side." Rolling Stones

This is Part Four in a fictional work in progress. Links to the rest are at the bottom of this page.

"Follow me," she said and just like that I am sitting in a breakfast nook with a mug of aromatic coffee in my hands. Me, in my stocking feet and a twenty-something redhead named Maria across from me wearing my boots. The coffee was good. In fact, the best that I have had in many years and possibly decades.

Maria spoke with a lovely accent that blended something like a New York Puerto Rican with a rolling Texas drawl and a Canadian or North Dakota influence, if you can imagine such. She spoke the local patois. There was a healthy aspect of Spanglish to it all, so, all told, it is not that different from what's spoken throughout North America and we could mostly understand each other.

Where we seemed to lose each other involved understanding of time and chronology. For her, time seemed to be divided into Now and Not Now. Measurement of time seemed foreign and incomprehensible.

So, what I gleaned as the coffee took effect is all a bit hodgepodge. Evidently, while searching for barbecue, I wandered into the middle of some sort of border skirmish.

I got hit by a sonic weapon and, according to Maria, I was heaped on the sidewalk with my hands around my huevos, trying to keep them from being scrambled. According to Maria, she took pity on my sorry ass and carried me to "safety". She also seemed to find it all somewhat humorous or at least entertaining.

Also, according to Maria, if she had left me "out there" I would have been killed by wolves and eaten by vultures, or perhaps vampires or werewolves or police/thieves or something like that.

While I was on the sidewalk facing imminent destruction, I was in a disputed sector of the City of Chicago. Now, I am in some sort of independent or autonomous region commonly called the "Zone" or the "Ozone". Evidently, it has no official name and no clearly defined borders, it is under the authority of no government, it has no laws and exists outside of time.

Maria could not tell me what day it was nor could she tell me how long I had been unconscious. The only answer she had to that question was the odd phrase, "some-some" which was accompanied by a slight waving of both hands.

After falling repeatedly into the Möbius Loop of space and time logic with no hope for mutual comprehension, she warmly suggested that I meet "Mi Abuelo" who might understand what I am talking about or could explain the obvious things about the world around us that I just couldn't seem to grasp. In "some-some" after the clinic, we might stop by and see, if I didn't have any more pressing engagements.

She told me that a Medico from the International Red Crescent had checked up on me when I was vegetative. When? "Some-some." The medic suggested that I visit the clinic before I move on with whatever it was I was doing "out there".

As far as my stuff goes, Maria explained in much detail the Laws of Salvage which, according to her, assured her a fair and reasonable reward for saving something of value and she claimed that my life was certainly worth more than my few possessions and some illegal currency. She also claimed certain rights concerning flotsam and jetsam under the Principle of Finder's Keepers. I was running numbers through my head, trying to figure the Black Market exchange rate of the various contraband currencies that I was carrying as well as what market value one could reasonably assign to my life and if I could present a tangible argument in favor of getting some of that money back.

Anyway, within her reasoning, she explained away my cash, as well as the pea shooter and holster. As far as the shoes she was wearing, she most politely and without a hint of irony, insisted that I was not wearing them when she found me and that I entered the Zone in my stocking feet. Why so, she did not know. She assured me that my jacket, hat and scarf were in a locker and that she had a nice pair of shoes that she would give me as a gift, because she liked me.

Even after coffee, I still felt pretty shaky and at a real disadvantage in whatever card game this was, but at least I didn't sense any immediate obvious threat or imminent danger. After a second cup of coffee and some sort of muffin, I almost felt trust, or something akin to it.

Where were we? It was a High School at one time and the cot was in the old locker room. The waterfalls that I dreamed were showers in the next room. The building served as some sort of community center and public bathhouse.

Maria offered me a clean towel as well as a change of clothes and a pair of shoes. I did not say no. Afterwards, she offered to guide me to the Red Crescent.

She handed me a small, colorful, hand crafted shoulder bag. Inside was a mug, some sort of filter and a pouch containing enough well grounded espresso for a half dozen cups. A gift, I suppose. Doesn't really make up for the boots, I think.

A visit to the clinic did seem prudent, considering that I pretty much felt like something that the dog threw up, even after the bath. I probably looked like that as well, but at least I probably didn't smell like that anymore.

We set out for the Clinic to see the Medico. This was also my first walkabout in the Zone. We exited the building at what must have been "street level" at one time. We faced a rough pathway through dense trees to the left and a covered and paved sidewalk leading to a greenhouse to the right. My guide looked to the left and then gave me the quick once over and the hairy eyeball. She then pointed to the right with her chin. I get the feeling that decision was made based on my age and relative frailty. Of course, I feel some combination of resentment and gratitude.

There is an interconnected network of greenhouses that serve as a public walkway. Outside of the greenhouses, the Zone shared a parallel weather to the Windy City, but inside the greenhouses it was comfortably above freezing. At intervals of what had once been blocks, there usually seemed to be a passageway to the outdoors. At some points, the greenhouses would branch off. All along the paths, but particularly by the entrances and junctures there were comfortable public benches.

At most of these rest stops there is a teahouse or cafe, if we are to use those terms loosely. What you have is sheltered space with a counter and a wall unit that dispenses boiling water. Surrounding each of these is an herb garden, primarily various mints. Everyone carries their own cups. I had consumed half of that coffee on the way to the clinic and was beginning to contemplate the upsides of peppermint.

There is public art everywhere. Throughout the greenhouses there are food bearing plants, predominantly fruit bushes. Drip lines irrigate the plants and I would assume that is automated, but I do not know. They seem to be healthy and grow well without any sort of organized maintenance. No one is weeding, but an occasional weed is pulled.

No one that I see in the Zone seems to be in a hurry to do anything or be anywhere. All meetings seem to be spontaneous and unplanned. Parties, concerts, theatrical performances, romantic encounters, dinners and breakfasts all happened with no obvious planning and no attachment to calendar or clock.

There is virtually no signage of authority or enterprise throughout the Zone. No anti litter signs or warnings to pick up after your dog. No solicitations or offers of vacation rentals or massages or drugs and beer for sale or robotic brothels. I didn't identify anything that could remotely be considered commercial. No stores, bars, restaurants, factories or markets. There were no visible means of support.

The professional and clearly emblematic facade of the clinic stood in dramatic contrast to pretty much everything else in the Zone. It bore the International Red Crescent logo as well as that of the United Nations. The clinic was professionally staffed and well outfitted.

Maria pointed to the doorway and told me that she would wait for me there. She then leaned herself against the only prohibitive sign I had seen throughout the Zone. The United Nations had posted a very serious warning in a dozen or more languages prohibiting smoking. There she chain smoked, while I went looking for the Doctor.

The UN Doc checked all my vitals and suggested that opium was good for extreme pain and if I felt bad or lonely, I could come back. The Doc suggested that I rest "some-some". How long is that? The Doc seemed as confused as Maria to that sort of question.

Rest, however, did seem like a good idea. Maria told me that I could stay as long as I wanted as her guest. I figured that I had paid for about three or four years of room and board with the greenbacks from the money belt - if the accommodations and service were above average - and I really did not expect to get my money's worth out of this, even considering the value of saving my life.

I did expect to regain my stamina - hopefully soon - and resume my travels in "some-some" as the locals would say, because "out there" I had expenses and responsibilities and a car with a stash of contraband and now I had to make up for the losses as well. I had no interest in staying in this Shangri La or Brigadoon or Neverland or whatever the fuck this place was any longer than necessary. Time may have stopped here but "out there" the clocks kept ticking.

This had to do for now and I suppose it could have been far worse. At least I was not killed by wolves and eaten by vultures. Not yet.

We left the clinic, walking out of doors and fully exposed to the Lake Effect winds. It would have been a pleasant walk but for the wind and the cold and the cold wind and the windy cold.

Fortunately, we did not plow on far like this before we were standing on a covered porch of a well built cottage. Maria called out "Abuelo, Mi Abuelo" as she turned the knob on the door and we let ourselves into a toasty and comfortable room. Every wall was lined with shelves and every inch of self space was filled with books.

I don't know when was the last time I had seen so many books in one place. Books have been an anachronism for a long time. Every book deemed legitimate has been digitized and having physical books is ostentatious and indiscreet. While it is not uncommon to have one or two or a half dozen books in one's possession - and one didn't usually face much trouble for possession of a few books - they are generally kept secured and out of sight. You know, at least stashed under the bed if not hidden in the floorboards.

Of course, that is in the United States of America which is a country with laws and customs. This is the Zone, and evidently there are other sets of norms here.

While we entered from the front of the building, a tall elderly fellow with shoulder length gray hair came in from an adjacent greenhouse. "You are right on time!" he said in a strong and clear Georgia drawl, with a toothy smile and with ironic and humorous intent. He gave me a nod and my guide a glancing hug and like that we were invited to lunch.

A pot of some sort of stew or goulash had been cooking on the stove and indeed our timing seemed to be quite good. The old man also offered me the use of a spare bedroom for "some-some" and Maria told me she would be back "some-some" and quietly slipped away and like that my accommodations went from the youth hostel level to something more akin to a very decent bed and breakfast in some parallel universe or mirror world.

It was a rare occasion for me to sit and talk with anyone even close to my age and even more rare to be with someone that appears to be older than myself. We were close enough in age however to share a sense of time and we had an unusual opportunity to compare notes or share observations.

We were too close in age for me to call this man Abuelo, although he tells me that most people call him that. Others call him Zayde and some call him Pops. I asked him what his birth name was and, without hesitation he says "Charles Ulysses Farley, but you don't need to be formal."

Chuck U. Farley, indeed. I might even like this guy. When he pulled out his humidor with the Cuban cigars and a well aged bottle of Kentucky whiskey as well, he was definitely making a good impression.

Besides the quality hooch and the first real tobacco that I've seen for at least thirty years, Charles, as I chose to call him, was writing a history of the Zone and he was very pleased to speak about history with someone that believes in time, because writing a chronological telling for those that cannot conceive of chronology is a complicated matter. So, he has been thinking about time a lot lately and liked talking about it. If I am going to hole up here anyway, I think, at least it might be intellectually stimulating.

I was glad to be free of the guttersnipe in my boots for the time being, although we still had unsettled matters between us. Time resolves all and I needed the time for my mind and body to heal from the attack, even if it was in a place without clocks. And "some-some" turned out to be early every morning to check on the old men to make sure they hadn't died in their sleep and to make them go for a walk and eat something healthy. And in spite of the local customs of time denial, this is how time passed until I recuperated.